Fridays Are For Trembling Hands
by theDarkIsRising
Summary: After the War, after they've lost everything, how do they pick up the pieces? Two people do so every Friday afternoon with trembling hands and gasping breaths.
1. Chapter 1

theDarkIsRising

Fridays Are For Trembling Hands

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They meet on Friday afternoons. She always gets off work an hour early, having worked through lunch in order to leave. He still has not found a job. She suspects that he bids his time, waiting for Fridays, waiting for their time together, waiting for her. Their routine is simple. She arrives at his house. It is much less conspicuous if she shows up there as opposed to him going to her place. His small one-bedroom sits in the midst of a sprawling forest. There are no neighbors. No one can see or hear them. Only the tall pines lean in to watch them. She used to knock, but soon gave that up. He is always there, always on the other side of the door, so why waste time knocking. Depending on his mood, he smiles slightly at her, or barely notices her; once he even growled as she crossed into his living room. Today, he sits cross-legged on his threadbare couch with a book across his lap. She can tell that he hasn't been reading; the book appears to be upside down.

"Hello," he says.

"Hello, again," she says.

With the pleasantries over, she sits her bag down and removes her cloak. Then she kicks off her sensible black heels. When she reaches for the buttons on her shirt, he stands up and makes his way over to her. His practiced hands take over for her, flicking them undone at a measured pace. She unzips her skirt and lets it fall to the floor. Once opened, his hands roam over her smooth stomach and up her back. He quickly undoes the clasp of her bra. She stands on her tiptoes and captures his head in her hands, pulling his lips down on hers. The kiss is hard and persistent, speaking of loneliness and loss. Every Friday, he tastes like chocolate to her. She wraps her arms around his neck. Placing his hands on her bottom, he pulls her flush against him.

She only breaks contact to yank off his shirt and undo his trousers. She notes how his trousers are holey and need mending. She can fix that; she could fix him. His belt pulls off with a snap, clanking to the floor next to her shoes. Breathing heavily, she peels off her red silk underwear. She starts steering him toward the couch. They have not visited that location recently. Their first time was in his tiny bed with her hands fisted in his sheets, then on the kitchen counter surrounded by dirty dishes, then outside under a waning moon. She found he had little control as the full moon neared as his body covered hers and grass pricked against her skin. Still backing him toward the sofa, her fingers hook around the edge of his boxers before tugging those down. He groans at the skin on skin contact. She feels him become hot beneath her fingertips. His fingers find her breasts and toy with her nipples, causing her to have a sharp intake of breath. She kisses several scars on his chest, intimately familiar with each one.

Now is one of those times that he whispers her name. He says her name different ways: urgently, angrily, huskily, and gently. Today, her name is said lovingly, softly. Today, he whispers it against her hair, against her neck like a prayer. If he says her name enough, if he says it adoringly enough, maybe the past will be erased. Maybe all those horrific memories will be wiped from him and maybe even her. The Battle will be over; the Battle will never have happened. Tonks will come back to life. She will have his child. They will be a family. With each breathy intonation of her name, she wishes with him. She wishes all those things would come true. She cannot deny that she wishes with him, but if it had not have happened, then they would not be here on Friday afternoons. She would have never tasted him or felt his strong hands on her bare hips. She hates herself for finding joy in their Fridays, for finding a thrill in standing on the other side of his door knowing what awaits her. Mostly, she hates herself for not missing Ron more. Maybe, that is her wish when she comes here, that she will become that better person who properly mourns.

She pushes him to the couch; the book falls heavily to the floor. Neither of them notices the noise. She stands in front of him, surveying his chest, the strong muscles that reside under his skin. A wolf waits in there, she thought. I have seen it. Howling, it devours me. He stretches out his hands to her, beckoning her to come to him. She hesitates. She should stop this, stop this now. How does this help his heart, she wondered. But he remains insistent, her name falling from his lips like a low chant. His voice grows rough around the edges. So, like every other Friday, she crumbles and falls into his embrace.

Carefully, she straddles his lap. She gasps as his erection teases her opening. As she grips his shoulders, he guides himself inside of her slowly. Today, he is gentle with her, taking his time as he eases upward. Some Fridays, she is barely in the door before he is on her, putting his hand beneath her skirt, pulling her panties aside and entering her with an almost terriying urgency. Her back is against the wall, her skirt hikes up to chest, and she eventually wraps her legs around him, matching his pace. He does not kiss her until they are both done, panting heavily, barely able to gasp down breaths. Then he softly kisses her neck, stuttering apologies against her skin, mumbling her name incessantly. She entangles her fingers in the hairs at the nape of his neck and assures him everything is okay.

But today, he languidly lets his hands wander across her body as she raises herself up and down. His hips buck against her gyrations as she speeds up her pace. Heavily, his eyelids droop closed. Then his fingers dig into her hips then her bottom, urging her on. He glances up at her, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. His mouth settles on her right breast, drawing it in, flicking the nipple around. One of her hands remains on his shoulder, while the other moves to the back of his head, keeping him in place. Her body begins to arch, a fire building within her stomach. He places a kiss between her breasts on her sternum, and trails more down her stomach. Then he encloses her other breast with his mouth, teasing and nipping at it. His hands support her back. Soon, so soon, the fire explodes in her body, coursing through her veins, and she falls forward on him. She briefly gasps out his name, so low she is not sure if she has said it aloud, but she knows that he will hear it. Waves continue to crash down on her; however, his breaths are still heavy. His whispers continue to encourage her.

Gasping lightly with each movement, she moves faster and faster until his grip on her is almost painful. Now, he cries out, bucking up to meet her movements a few last times. She captures those moans in her mouth as she kisses him again and continues moving her hips slightly, toying with him, knowing he can always go again. Sometimes, she does not leave his cottage until very late in the night. They have each other two, three, four times. It depends – on how lonely they are, how much they hurt, and how good each other's skin feels. His neck is slightly salty from a light sweat; she trails her mouth and down to his collar bone. Finally, his hands still her movements and his arms cradle her against him. She enjoys the Fridays when he is sentimental and affectionate. He allows her to pull his head to her chest, to smooth down his shaggy hair in need of a cut. She whispers nonsense to him; she's not sure of what she is saying. It is her turn to murmur his name into his ear. She feels strangely light after each time they have sex; she hopes he feels the same. Every Friday, she hopes his heart becomes less burdened.

Eventually, he speaks. "Why do you always come back to me?"

"Why do you always wait for me?"

"Because I know you'll be there. On the other side of that door."

"Same for me. You will be here." She pokes his chest, but is clearly indicating his position on the coach.

He pushes a few stray curls from her face and tucks them behind her ear. She knows by now her hair must look wild. Every time she leaves, her appearance seems more ragged than the time before: messy hair, flushed face, swollen lips, askew clothing. His thumb traces her bottom lip and his face holds a distance expression. She is losing him; he is slowly slipping away, going away from her, away from this Friday afternoon. His gray eyes grow hazy. The sun slants in from a nearby window, illuminating them. Please stay with me, she thought. Don't go. Be here; be really here. She repositions herself into a sitting position on his lap. Cupping his face, she runs her thumb along his prominent cheekbone.

"Remus," she says. When he does not respond, she says it again. "Remus."

"Yes, Hermione?" he breathes out her name slowly.

She hesitates. "What is this?"

At first, he leans away from her and her touch. She tries to hide it, but she knows her face relays her disappointment at his reaction. Sensing her distress, he comes closer again, pulling her against his chest, placing a flurry of kisses into her hair, inhaling the intoxicating honey scent that clings to her.

"Surviving. We are surviving."


	2. Chapter 2

theDarkIsRising

Let Her Go

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He couldn't remember how it started. Actually, that was a lie. He remembered exactly how it had started. She brought him his Wolfsbane potion on a Friday; it was a few days ahead of schedule, as she usually did. She stood in his doorway and handed him the vial with smoke pouring out around the stopper. It looked like she had just gotten off work. They exchanged small talk: how was her job, how was his job hunt, how was the rest of the Order.

She looked tired; small purplish bags were underneath her eyes. He asked her to stay for dinner. It was the least he could do. She brewed an incredibly complex potion for him and asked for nothing in return. As she stood in his small front parlor, she asked to see the rest of his cottage. He led her around the kitchen, jokingly pointing out the potatoes that would become their supper. But they didn't eat any food that night. Tentatively, he showed her his sparse bedroom. He poked his head into his bathroom to make sure it was decent and turned around to beckon her. However, she had been standing much closer then he realized. He nearly knocked her over. Luckily, he grabbed her about the waist and her hands fisted into his shirt to keep her balance. Her nose grazed along his jawline and he felt his breath hitch in his throat.

Then, unexpectedly, he felt a light pressure upon his neck and realized it was her lips. Stupidly, the first thought that came into his head was that he wished he had shaved better. He knew his face was slightly grizzly with a five o'clock shadow. It had been a long time, quite a long time, since anyone had kissed him in any way. So, he stood stock still and let her continue. His mind felt numb and overloaded at the same time.

"Hermione," he finally managed to say. His breath was ragged, as she continued kissing down his neck, unbuttoning the first button of his shirt to kiss along his collarbone.

"Hush," she said. She leaned back to look into his eyes. Her own looked hazy, far away. Placing her hand behind his head, he let her guide his face within centimeters of hers.

"I can't," he said. He should protest. This was Harry's best friend; Harry's only surviving best friend. She was young. She had been his student. But it had been so long since any one had touched him, since anyone had pressed themselves against him, causing his blood to run cold then hot. Not since Dora, not since his dear wife and she was dead.

"Yes, you can." And he agreed; he could do this, he did want this. He let her press her lips against his.

At first, he let her suck along his bottom lip, nibbling at it, incessantly pressing her lips to his own. Her hands locked into his hair that he knew needed a cut. Then, he joined her, wrapping his arms around her back, pulling her completely against him. He finally allowed her persistent tongue admittance. Tilting his head, he deepened their kiss and she moaned into his mouth. Her hips had begun moving in slow circles. Now, Remus lost all ability to think; his mind was blank and it was wonderful. She removed her hands from his neck and let them slide down his chest. Never breaking his kiss, she tugged at his trousers' button and zipper. Her actions cleared some of the fog in his mind.

He broke away from her, laying his hands on top of hers to stop them. "Hermione," he said, her name coming out as growl. "You may regret this."

"That's not going to happen." She rubbed a hand over her lips. "I've been thinking about you."

He didn't know what to say. Who would be thinking of him? He hardly saw anyone, spoke to anyone. His mind did not live in the present. He could barely keep up with what day of the week it was. His conscious kept track of the moon cycle only because it pulled on his body. That's how he could pinpoint exactly when she would show up at his doorstep. Then he could smell her on the other side of the door, like ink and honey and Wolfsbane. Now, she smelled entirely different; she was aroused. That's when Remus decided. She wanted it; she wanted him. No one was around for miles. No one could see and judge them. No one would know.

Remus captured her chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. She stared back at him. Then his thumb ran along her cheek; a few faint scars crisscrossed along her skin. She had refused treatment and had waited too long to heal them after the fighting had ended. They were all scarred. Bending down, he murmured against her lips, "What've you been thinking?"

"All of this." She lifted to meet his lips, kissing him again. He felt her pushing toward his bed that was against the far wall.

Then Remus could feel another pair of hands on his chest – Dora – and he remembered her faint smile as she'd badger him about sex. When, when, when, she was always asking. Wait, he'd say, let's wait. Then after a long mission, after a near-death encounter with Death Eaters, they both clawed at each other's clothing, tasting each other's skin for the first time, mingling heartbeats as they matched each other rhythms. And Remus thought of Dora's face and he felt the hands move to his waist and stop. His knees touched the edge of the mattress. He opened his eyes and did not find his wife standing in front of him.

Hermione's expression also looked distant and for the first time since they'd begun kissing she looked worried.

"What is it?" he asked. His hands rested on her shoulders.

"It's nothing," she answered quickly. "Sorry." She shook her head.

"Come here."

Remus sat down on the bed, toeing off his shoes. He heard Hermione's heels clatter to the floor. Moving backwards, he laid out flat and guided her on top of him. Her eyes still questioned him, her fingers tentatively interlaced with his. Come here, he said again. He stroked the back of her head, feeling the unfamiliar wildness of her hair. At the end, Dora had kept her short, cropped close to her head – for combat purposes, she'd say. Like that mattered, the curse caught her square in the chest. He could always call it to mind; he could always see it. But he buried his fingers deeper into Hermione's untamed hair, reveling in its softness and things began to dim. Hermione responded to his touch again, leaning forward, placing her lips on his. They lay like that for a bit, not speaking – kissing, roaming over each other, hands sliding over clothing. She has been thinking of this. She has been thinking of me.

He tugged gently at the bottom of her blouse. It was a question. She nodded. Remus pulled it up and over her head. Now, feeling her bare skin underneath his fingers, he knew he would not stop. They would not stop. He didn't ask, but rather unclasped her bra. Hermione lifted up, eyes downcast at first, but then stared at him as she shook it from her arms. Lifting his hand, she rubbed it up her stomach and then placed it on her breasts. She closed her eyes and he could feel how deep her breathing had become, how quickly her heart raced. They were smaller, rounder than Dora's had been. Hermione felt so soft and he caressed them. She wants me, has wanted me.

The rest of their clothes were soon peeled away. For the first time in a long time, Remus felt a stab of surprise as Hermione removed her red underwear. She left her stockings on. Her hands flitted over his body, over his scars. He sucked in as she traced them, kissed them, and even licked a few of the larger, more raised ones. She bit along his stomach. They shuffled. Hermione lay underneath him. When she opened her legs and straddled his form, he suddenly worried that she may be a virgin, that maybe she'd been too busy during the war. Dora made sure they were never too busy. But maybe Hermione and Ron had never –

She took his face in her hands, then ghosted her right hand down his stomach, and stroked him. Remus could not control the gasp of breath that escaped him.

"Please," she said. "It's okay. Please."

Hermione arched up, letting her body meet his. We both want this. He pulled her closer, buried his face in her neck and entered her. Her small gasps filled his ear as he kissed along neck and gradually built up his rhythm. Remus finally looked down at her face. Her lips were slightly parted and her eyes were hooded. She saw him. She smiled slightly before wrapping herself more fully around him, locking her legs around his hips, letting her nails glide up his back.

As they came closer, she knotted her hands in the sheets, twisting them. It had been so long. He couldn't control himself. A wave of guilt and pleasure washed over him as he released. He pulled her close again, disentangling her from the sheets, whispering her name as he felt her spasm around him, as she gasped for breath along with him. Her name over and over and over again. It was beautiful. _Hermione_. It should never be shortened. She repeated his, answered his prayer with her own. It had been so long since anyone had said his name like that. He thought of Dora and how her mouth formed his name and how her voice sounded as she said, Remus. At this moment, he could barely recall it.

"Remus," she said. "Remus."

He felt hands on his face, touching his chin, his cheek, his eyelids. She brought him back. He opened his eyes and looked down at her, at Hermione. She was saying his name, no one else.

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_AN: _I don't know what I'm doing, but here have some more mournful, post-war Remione moments. Thanks for the encouragement everyone. Thanks to undertheharvestmoon, whom I couldn't respond to via FFnet, but that review was very kind and greatly appreciated. I, too, wish that we had better HG/RL fics on here to read. Let's go out and write them!


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